


Normal is Boring

by round_robin



Series: Kinks in Your Back [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Contest, M/M, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Rimming, Underwear Kink, let's call it a Christmas fic because why not?, not series two compatible, reapersun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets John a pair of red pants for Christmas. At first, John thinks it's a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Normal is Boring

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fuck Yeah Johnlock Fanfiction tumblr's Red Pants contest: http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/31285639286/fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic-reapersun-and
> 
> For those of you who are unaware, the amazing Reapersun created John's red pants. It has since exploded into a Thing, with its own day and everything. Today is actually the one year anniversary of the first red pants drawing that launched the thing that is Red Pants Monday. Can be found here: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10116816781/john-watsons-junk-all-up-in-yo
> 
> I'd wanted to write a John's Red Pants fic to fit into this series for a while, but never really had the motivation. When I saw the contest, I couldn't resist. So here's my entry for Fuck Yeah Johnlock's contest, which also makes a handy addition to my Kinks series. Fancy that.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so if anyone sees a typo, put it in with your comment and it'll be seen to. :)

It was a joke. At least, John thought it was.

“You got me pants?” he asked, holding the red briefs out in front of him.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “It’s Christmas, is it not? Red is thought of as a Christmas colour.”

“Yes,” John said. “It’s just not like you to get me something that can only be used once a year.”

“That’s why they’re red,” he said, inching closer to John on the sitting room rug in front of their small Christmas tree. Christmas bush, really. “Red for Christmas, yes, but red can be worn at other times, can it not? Honestly John, you think I would get you something with such a limited use?”

John smirked and leaned over to steal a kiss. “I think you just wanted to buy me underwear.” Sherlock said nothing and their quiet Christmas Day continued as planned.

Later that night, when they were tucked up in bed, everything in the kitchen ready to go for Boxing Day, Sherlock’s hands immediately fell to the waist of John’s pajama bottoms.

Long, tickling fingers rubbed over John’s skin, making him moan. All too soon, everything stopped. John looked down to see a frown creasing Sherlock’s face. “You’re not wearing them,” he said.

“Wearing what?”

“Your gift,” Sherlock mumbled, his fingers tracing John’s hips.

John’s eyebrows shot up, but Sherlock’s face did not change. He was doing that sad puppy sort of look. God knows where he learned it. A withering stare from Sherlock could render John completely pliant, and the puppy eyes could do so much more.

But this was strange. Earlier, Sherlock spoke of the gift as a logical choice. Lamenting over the fact that John didn’t run upstairs and put them on the second he received them was very much the opposite of logical.

At his silence, Sherlock tried another tactic: “I’ve been led to understand that wearing one’s Christmas gifts _on_ Christmas was the polite, socially acceptable thing to do. It is said to show that one enjoys the present.” Pause. (Sherlock was very good at timing the pauses.) “Do you not like them?”

“No,” John said. “I do.” It was the puppy eyes, they did him in every time. “Really, they were nice. But,” a quick look at the clock. Eleven fifty. “There’s not much Christmas left. What would be the point?” And the fact that Sherlock’s argument was the exact opposite of the one he made this morning also seemed at odds with _the point_. (Which John doubted even existed.)

Oh no. The lower lip. Soft and glistening, it poked out ever so, adding a new level to the puppy eyes. John hated himself a little for getting into this relationship in the first place (well, not really) because it opened up whole new avenues of manipulation techniques to Sherlock’s keen mind. He was the perfect mimic and could’ve employed any of these things at any time, but without John to give in every sodding time, Sherlock saw no need. Now, the need seemed to crop up whenever he wasn’t about to get his way. Mostly where sex was concerned.

Usually, John noticed this blatant attempt at manipulation and gave in or resisted accordingly. Right now however, he was too tired. They’d had a good Christmas with no chaos, no screaming families, or stupid fights, and now he just wanted to sleep.

Climbing out of bed, he went over to the pile of new clothes and fished out the pants. He shucked his bottoms and pulled the red pants on. Too bleary-eyed and slightly exhausted, John didn’t notice the way Sherlock’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

Pants and bottoms back in place, John went back to the bed and lay down. “Happy?” He asked.

As soon as the covers were settled, Sherlock rolled over and spooned up behind John, his hand darting into the waistband of John’s new pants to rest on his hip. Those long, spidery fingers caressing over his skin always made John shiver and his prick spring to attention. This was no exception.

“Yes,” Sherlock purred in his ear. “Good night John.”

“Good night,” John said.

Thankfully, he really was too tired and his erection faded quickly. But that hand. That hand stayed there on his hip until he fell asleep.

 

~

 

Two days later, John opened his dresser to find… more red pants. In fact, the entire top drawer (usually occupied by socks and you know, normal coloured pants) was filled with them. Had to be at least a week and a half’s worth.

He spared a quick thought for the original Christmas pair, which were now laying atop the pile of clothes in the hamper, samples of both their semen drying on the fabric. That had happened last night. After Sherlock returned home from Bart’s, he pushed John against the wall and tore at the fastenings of his trousers. Once the red pants were visible, Sherlock proceeded to dry hump John until they both came.

In his lust-addled brain, John didn’t make the connection. He simply went off for a shower and chuckled the pants in the hamper for the washing later that week. Now that he was staring at a drawer full of the things, the dots started aligning.

So Sherlock had an underwear fetish. John could handle that.

He pulled a pair out of the drawer and slipped them on. John stopped and took a quick look down, trying to see what Sherlock liked about these pants in specific. Nothing out of the ordinary, but then again Sherlock saw any number of things that John didn’t. Oh well. If it made Sherlock happy.

Smiling to himself, he finished getting dressed and went downstairs for some breakfast. Sherlock was off at Bart’s for something and said he’d be back by noon, which meant three. Possibly five. John had eight—maybe ten—hours to think about the exact way to make Sherlock lose it as soon as he walked in the door.

When the door opened at four thirty, John was in the kitchen making tea. He automatically pulled down a second mug. “John?” Sherlock called.

“Kitchen,” John called back just as the kettle began to boil.

“My experiment. It was—” John didn’t have to look to know why Sherlock’s words came to a sudden halt. He stood at the counter and finished making the tea before turning and looking at his detective.

Standing in front of the counter, John wore nothing. Save the red pants and a smirk.

For the moment, he was very impressed with himself. He managed to render Sherlock speechless for a whole two seconds. Then the other man blinked, cleared his throat and reset his shoulders, and it was gone. Still, a brief moment of having one up on Sherlock would keep John happy for days.

“You’ve caught on, I see,” Sherlock said.

John snorted and took a sip of his tea. “Wasn’t exactly difficult. Drawer full of red pants. For the record, you could always just ask.” He set his tea down and turned to fully face Sherlock. Gesturing to indicate himself, John smiled. “Well? What do you want with me?”

In the space between heart beats, Sherlock was across the kitchen, his mouth pressed to John’s, hands around his hips. “I want you bent over the table right now.” Sherlock whispered as he pulled at his own clothes. Everything hit the floor in an insane kind of flurry. John had never seen Sherlock undress this quickly.

Still… this was _their_ kitchen they were standing in.

Before John could even glance around and judge the cleanliness of the table (not to mention whether it was currently occupied by the glassware of the lab) Sherlock made an aggravated little noise in the back of his throat. “In the event that you discovered my train of thought, I cleaned and disinfected the kitchen last night. Over the table.” Seeing as Sherlock was already naked, hard and leaking, John found that he couldn’t deny him. Turning around, he leaned over and presented his red pants-covered arse.

He heard a hungry growl from behind and the unmistakable sound of Sherlock’s knees hitting the kitchen floor. “Oh fuck!” John jumped when Sherlock pressed his nose into John’s still-covered backside. “Not wasting any time, are you?”

Sherlock said nothing. His tongue was very busy at the moment. Licking up and down John’s cleft until the fabric was absolutely soaking. And John could feel it. Not as sharply as a normal rim job, mind you, as the barrier of the pants provided a bit of a block for the full stimulation. But it was good… oh, so good. John had seen Sherlock’s mouth say and do a lot of cruel things, and now there was a different level of cruelty going on behind him. And he couldn’t get enough of it.

All too soon, it stopped. Sherlock’s sharp nose, hot tongue and warm breath disappeared from John’s crack. “Hey—” he tried to look over his shoulder only to have one long fingered hand settle on his shoulder and push him forward. The other tugged at the waist of his pants. Once those red beauties were stretched tight around John’s upper thighs, he knew where this was going.

Sherlock’s body heat disappeared entirely for one too long moment before returning, along with two slippery fingers nudging between John’s cheeks. He tried to widen his stance but was hampered by the pants. “No,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, fingers still tracing his rim, never touching enough. “Stay like this.”

The fingers pressed inside in earnest, sliding into John up to the second knuckle. “Oh, yes.” John thrust his hips back, taking more of those fingers. A sudden slap to his arse added a sharp bite to everything and John moaned again.

“Tell me what you like about them,” John groaned, his cheek pressed against the table, sweaty palms sliding against the wood.

“The fit,” Sherlock whispered. He bent over John’s back so his mouth ended up right at the other man’s ear, breath hot and tickling and perfect against his skin. “The way the fabric hugs you, showing off every one of your… _assets_.”

John snorted at the joke, which was quickly followed by another moan as talented fingers pressed in again. Moving in and out, deeper, angling to touch everywhere.

“The colour,” Sherlock continued. “It reminds me of blood.”

John wasn’t sure what surprised him less: that Sherlock made that association and found it arousing, or that he had no problem telling John all about it while his slick fingers worked in and out of him. It didn’t matter because it was completely expected.

There were no more words now, just hot breath and hungry kisses over every inch of John’s neck, and glorious, thrusting fingers. After another moment of magnificent torture, John nodded his head. “Sherlock, now.” He panted.

For once, Sherlock was in agreement. The digits slid out of John, but weren’t replaced by the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock. When he peered over his shoulder to inspect, John saw Sherlock tugging at his pants, lowering them even more. When they were around his knees, John lifted one leg to slip them off. Sherlock left them to dangle around one ankle.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the red pants wrapped around John’s ankle. Just the one. Hanging there… or, they would be in a minute.

So fast, he almost knocked the table, Sherlock stood up again and grabbed John’s hips. In a move way too smooth for their current situation, John was lifted and turned, and plopped onto the table top. Not even thinking about it, he lifted his toes to make sure the pants didn’t drop. Sherlock saw this little moment and growled low in his chest. Leaning forward, he smashed his lips against John’s, one hand grabbing for the lube and slicking his cock.

When everything was ready, Sherlock threw the lube… somewhere, and reached out to grab John’s hips. He moved John so he was sitting on the very edge of the table, his arse open and ready, pants still dangling from one ankle.

Using a hand to guide his cock, Sherlock pressed in. That first push home was always wonderful and both men groaned. A few more thrusts and Sherlock bottomed out.

Sherlock took a second to stop—lest this end far too soon—and John took advantage. While Sherlock was catching his breath, he shifted around a bit until his ankles were resting on Sherlock’s shoulders, pants brushing against pale, beautiful skin.

“John—” Sherlock gasped when he felt the soft cotton rubbing against his shoulder.

“Shush,” John whispered. “Just enjoy it.”

And Sherlock did. Turning his head to the side, he rubbed his cheek against the cotton. Fuck, he could smell the pre-come smeared on the front panel…

His hips never missed a beat, even as his lips parted to grab the pants between his teeth. For his part, John had fallen back on the table. Legs still in the air with Sherlock thrusting like a piston between his thighs, John laid back and rode it out. One of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands dropped down to tend to his erection and John decided that he never wanted this to stop.

The end came rather suddenly.

“Sherlock,” John panted. “Fuck, coming!”

“Yes!” Sherlock growled.

A few more frantic thrusts and it was over. With a long, loud groan, Sherlock pulled out of John and promptly collapsed on top of his chest. John let him. Pants still clinging to his ankle, he lifted his legs to wrap them around Sherlock’s back.

“Good?” He asked.

“Mmm… good,” Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder.

“Good,” John smiled.

He let Sherlock have a minute (and needed one himself, because _fuck_ ). They laid there and John rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock’s back. When the detective seemed to be alert again, John spoke. “So do I get to know where my normal pants went?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “Right.”

Well. Normal was boring anyway.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> The stories in this series can be read in any order, and don't necessarily exist in the same universe. They only have one thing in common: kink.
> 
> Also: I have no idea what this happens at Christmas. Just go with it.


End file.
